My Favorite Souvenir(54)

But we had never even exchanged phone numbers.

Taking out my phone, I Googled Matteo Duncan, hoping by some miracle a phone number would pop up. Of course, luck was again not on my side.

I really needed a few more minutes alone, so I decided to go to the bathroom before Brady got back. As I stood, I looked down and noticed Brady had left his cell phone on the table.

My pulse sped up.

Milo’s number.

He must have Milo’s number in there.

It wouldn’t be so strange if I took it to the ladies’ room? It would be sort of irresponsible to leave a thousand-dollar phone unattended on the table of a crowded bar.

Not allowing myself to overanalyze it, I glanced around the bar for any sign of Brady. Finding the coast clear, I swiped the phone off the table and practically ran to the ladies’ room.

My heart pounded in my chest as I locked myself in a stall. With my hands shaking, I prayed Brady hadn’t changed his passcode as I typed it in.

0-5-1-4

Bingo.

The phone unlocked, and I exhaled a loud stream of air.

Calling up the contacts, I typed in Milo and nothing appeared. Realizing Brady would certainly not have his friend listed by our fake Hooker names, I tried Matteo. But still nothing came up. So I typed Duncan, praying he was in there.

Thankfully, that was it. I took a deep breath and hit Call.

My entire body was tense as the phone just kept ringing.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

But in the end, there was no answer. No voicemail, either. It just kept ringing and ringing. So were my ears. Leaning my head against the door of the stall, everything hit me at once. Tears fell down my cheeks, and I wondered how long it would be before Brady figured out there was something very wrong.





Chapter 17




* * *



Matteo



It had been two days, and I still felt like shit.

Though, some of this morning’s pain might have to do with the amount of liquor I’d consumed last night in the hotel bar and not just the kick in the stomach my buddy and my girl had hit me with.

My girl.

Fuck. That really was how I thought of her. Or had thought. Or still do think. I don’t know anymore. I wasn’t sure about anything to do with Maddie at this point.

Or Hazel.

Her damn name was Hazel.

The fact that we’d never exchanged our real names had seemed almost romantic to me. But after the revelation two nights ago, I realized I’d been nothing but a romantic fool. Our fake names only clarified what our relationship had been from the start: a fraud.

Her fiancé dumped her two months before the wedding? Yeah, right. Funny how when my buddy had called to tell me the wedding was off, he’d told me his fiancée had been the one to back out. I’d believed every word Maddie had said to me, without questioning any of it. Even today, after forty-eight hours of letting things sink in, a part of me still wanted to believe her. Which was nuts, because why the hell would I take the word of a woman I’d known for such a short time—a woman who’d obviously lied to me about at least one important element of her breakup—over the buddy I’d had for nearly ten years.

An ache in my chest urged me to think about why. But I refused to go there.

I just couldn’t.

What difference did it make what feelings I had for her, anyway?

She was my buddy’s girl.

She wasn’t mine anymore.

Or rather, she never had been.

For forty-eight hours, all I’d done was think about every interaction we’d had. Had I been seeing things that weren’t really there? Was I so desperate to connect with someone that I accepted her injured-soul story even though—if I were to look more closely—there had been signs she was full of shit?

There had to be.

You can’t spend night and day with a person for nearly two weeks and not see some crack in the fa?ade they’re wearing. I had to have been seeing what I wanted to see.

But for the life of me, no matter how often I looked back for those tiny fissures, all I could see was my Maddie.

My Maddie.

I couldn’t see who she really was—Hazel who made up stories about being dumped when she’d really taken off on her loving fiancé. Not even in hindsight.

Which was fucked up. Because two nights ago, the truth had slapped me right across the damn face.

Forcing myself out of bed at almost eleven in the morning, I took a quick shower and guzzled a bottle of water, along with a few Tylenol. When I’d checked into the hotel, I’d only booked two nights. So if I didn’t extend my stay, housekeeping would be walking in to clean the vacated room soon. I had to push myself to get dressed, hoping my pounding hangover would subside soon, and I headed downstairs to the lobby.

“Hi. I’m in room 1522. I’m supposed to check out today. Would it be possible to extend my stay?”

The hotel clerk typed into his computer. “Sure. Do you want just one more night?”

I had no idea what I wanted. “Yeah, I think so.”

A few minutes later, I had a place to rest my aching head for another night, and I was standing outside on a busy Manhattan street corner. I didn’t feel like sightseeing, yet I needed some fresh air. So I turned right and started to walk, with no destination in mind. It was the week after Thanksgiving, but unseasonably warm, so at least the weather was cooperating. I walked for about an hour and a half, still unsure where I was heading and not feeling much better than when I left.